


Matches

by noblewriting



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Beauty and the Beast (2017), Disney - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 15:23:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10440846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblewriting/pseuds/noblewriting
Summary: Lumiere is having, um, difficulties. Post-curse. Applicable to either version of BATB.





	

Matches. Lumiere had no idea where they had gone off to. Right after he had been cursed, he had kept trying to use them, only to have them go up in flames in his hands—candles—hands. Once it settled in he didn’t need them, and could light things on his own, he had tossed them away somewhere—and that had been years ago, and now it was dark. He stubbed his toe on something. Merde!

He felt a desk, and scrabbled for its drawers. Surely Belle had put some in here, for when he wasn’t around? Or maybe—he groped around—she had put one at the base of a candlestick. It still felt funny, to think of a candelabra as something separate from himself. Was anybody else having these growing pains? Did Cogsworth keep thinking of the clocks as compatriots, not objet d’art?

No luck; no matches. Lumiere swore quietly and strained to see by the light of the window, but the moon wasn’t out and it was hopeless. He’d be lost here forever. Plumette would come in in the morning to find his body sprawled by this desk, killed by a couch he had tripped over or a chandelier he had run into. People would weep at his funeral and say “if only he hadn’t been quite so tall.” Just to turn human again, only to die because there weren’t any matches to help a man get around! Lumiere groaned and snapped his fingers in frustration.

A small flame appeared at the end of his fingertips.

Sacre bleu!

He did it again. It got bigger—not as dramatic a flame as he’d been able to conjure as a candle, but enough. Smiling, he let the fire guide him around the item he’d stubbed his toe on—a footstool, of course, there had always been a footstool there, it had just seemed massive when he was a candelabra—and got to the door easily, in two strides. He held the flame in his hand—it radiated a small heat, but it was otherwise harmless.

He grinned as he headed off to Plumette’s room. Tomorrow, first thing, they were having a bonfire with all the matchboxes.


End file.
